


Summer Heat and Storm

by ProofOfConcept, wilddragonflying



Series: Collaborations [92]
Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: Depression, Eliot Waugh is a good boyfriend, Eliot Waugh's Canonically Huge Dick, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Explicit Sexual Content, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Minor Quentin Coldwater/Margo Hanson/Eliot Waugh, Protective Eliot Waugh, Sequel, Trans Character, Trans Eliot Waugh, Trans Male Character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-26
Updated: 2020-11-26
Packaged: 2021-03-10 02:07:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,864
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27686020
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ProofOfConcept/pseuds/ProofOfConcept, https://archiveofourown.org/users/wilddragonflying/pseuds/wilddragonflying
Summary: Summer break is meant for relaxing, but sometimes life gets in the way.
Relationships: Quentin Coldwater/Eliot Waugh
Series: Collaborations [92]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/41362
Comments: 3
Kudos: 48





	Summer Heat and Storm

**Author's Note:**

> Heads up: In this fic, we deal with the consequences of Q going off of his meds, as he told Alice in the first one! This dives a bit more into Quentin's depression, what that encompasses, and how it affects him/his relationship with the world/other people.

"Oh my _God_ ," Eliot groans, his voice deep and ragged. He's on his hands and knees, his arms shaking with the effort of holding himself up, and Quentin is... Quentin is squeezing his hips, pulling him back onto his cock, and the movement makes Eliot see stars. He moans, long and loud, and cries out when Quentin does it again. He's not being particularly rough, he's not even fucking him that hard, but between the two orgasms he's already had, the cock in his ass and the vibrator in his cunt, Eliot can't see straight. Thank God for soundproofing wards.

Quentin echoes his groan, his grip tightening about Eliot's hips - he'll have bruises there for sure - and his rhythm stuttering as he shifts, leaning forward to brush a kiss to the nape of Eliot's neck. "How you doing?" he asks, voice ragged with effort. 

"Don't stop," Eliot gasps. "If you dare stop--"

Quentin laughs, low but not mean, as he straightens. "Wouldn't dream of it," he promises, encouraging Eliot to angle his hips just so, allowing Quentin to fuck into him at just the right angle to jostle the vibrator in his cunt. 

It doesn't take long after that. The vibrator is buzzing right up against Eliot's G-spot now, sending shockwaves of pleasure straight to his aching cock, and Quentin feels so fucking good inside him. He knows it's coming, knows he's not going to get a hand on his cock in time, but he won't need to. "Q," he moans, the pressure in his cunt building. "Q, harder, please, please, fucking _give it to me_."

Quentin grunts an acknowledgement, his pace increasing until the sound of his hips against Eliot's ass echoes through the room. He's fucking Eliot hard enough that he's swaying on his hands and knees, dangerously close to falling on his face as Quentin drives him closer to orgasm. It's exactly what Eliot needs. Just a few more thrusts and then he cries out as he squirts all over the mattress. It's incredible, it's earth-shattering, he's trembling all over - but Quentin is still going.

" _Fucking--_ " Eliot hisses, hoping to God he can hold himself up with one arm as he finally reaches between his legs. His entire cunt is soaked, his fingers slipping against his cock as he works it frantically, desperate to come. He _screams_ when he squirts again.

" _Shit,_ " Quentin gasps, hips jerking, and then he stops, hips pressed to Eliot's ass as he comes with a low groan that sounds vaguely like Eliot's name. Eliot can feel Quentin's cock jerking as he comes, imagines he can feel Quentin filling him up the way they both adore, ever since they decided to stop using condoms. "Fuck, fuck, shit, _El._ "

Eliot quickly plants his hand back against the mattress to keep himself from collapsing. His whole body is trembling all over, spent and exhausted, and the vibrator is _still inside him_. "Uhhh, little help, Q?" He sounds vaguely hysterical even to his own ears.

"Oh, fuck, yeah." Quentin doesn't pull out just yet, but he does reach around, between Eliot's legs, and flick the switch on the vibrator. He eases it out of Eliot's cunt, tossing it to the edge of the bath towel they'd laid on the bed earlier. "Okay, I'm gonna - gonna pull out now."

"Slow," Eliot says, wincing as Quentin starts to ease out of him. "Ah, fuck."

Quentin murmurs a soothing noise, running his hand over Eliot's back as his cock slips free. "Here, let me grab the towel."

"I need to fucking collapse, like, right the fuck now," Eliot tells him.

"Let me grab the towel and you can," Quentin reassures him, reaching for the now-soaked fabric in question. "Here, you can fall over on this side. I'll clean this and the vibrator."

"You're an angel," Eliot sighs, and flops onto the side of the bed that's mostly dry. He feels Quentin's come start to leak out of him and squirms against the sheets. "Hurry up, I want to cuddle."

"Well, _I_ don't want to listen to you bitch about me not taking proper care of your toys," Quentin teases, leaning down for a kiss. "I'll be right back."

Eliot just hums against his lips and rolls onto his back. A few simple tuts cleans up what's left of the mess, both of the sheets and between Eliot's legs, and by the time Quentin comes back he's smoking, one arm tucked behind his head and one leg bent at the knee, showing off his wet, well-fucked cunt. Such a casual display of his own body where someone else could see would have been unthinkable before they got together, but Eliot is man enough to admit that being with Quentin has changed him in the best ways. Six weeks into the summer and he's more comfortable in his own skin than he's ever been.

"Hey gorgeous," he says, as Quentin joins him on the bed. He offers him the cigarette.

"Hi, handsome," Quentin hums, tucking himself against Eliot's side, sighing happily at the full-body, skin-on-skin contact like he always does. He accepts the proffered cigarette, taking a drag before he passes it back. "How are you feeling?"

"Thoroughly destroyed," Eliot says happily. "Has sex always been this good for you?" It's not the first time he's asked this question, but he keeps asking it even though he knows the answer. Maybe because he knows the answer.

"Hm. Nope," Quentin answers, just as he always does, throwing one leg over Eliot's. "But my brownies are still better."

Eliot gives him a disgusted look. "Then maybe I need to put more effort in."

Quentin snickers, wrapping an arm around Eliot so he can pull him closer, gently nosing against Eliot's collarbone. "I won't complain if you want to keep trying to convince me," he murmurs. "I love you."

Eliot blows a perfect, heart-shaped smoke ring at the ceiling. "Love you, too, buttercup."

* * *

"So, I'm thinking of going away next week," Margo says, playing idly with Eliot's hair. He has his head in her lap, Quentin sprawled across from them on the picnic blanket they've spread out on the lawn at the back of the Physical Cottage. It's been just the three of them in the Cottage for weeks, and it's been blissful. This is not the first time they've headed out into the sweltering heat for a barbecue and cocktails in various states of undress and fooled around in the grass. Eliot even has his shirt off today, confident as he is that no one will come by.

He tips his head back to look up at her, and smiles when he sees that her lipstick is smeared just a little. He doesn't have to look over at Quentin to know that his lips are smudged with the same deep pink. "Where to?" he asks.

"Andalusia, maybe," Margo says. "Somewhere hot, with a kickass beach. And no, before you ask, you're not invited."

"Rude," Quentin says mildly, pouting just a little. He should look ridiculous, but maybe it's the remnants of Margo's lipstick that makes it look cute instead. "How long do you think you'll be gone?"

"A week," Margo says. "Two, maybe more. Long enough for you two to get sick of fucking on every available surface in the Cottage."

Quentin flicks a piece of grass in her direction. "You say that like we're never going to be dressed while you're gone."

"We probably won't be," Eliot tells him.

This time the piece of grass lands on Eliot's face. "Yeah, but she doesn't have to come right out and _say_ it. Also we better be clothed when we go visit my dad."

Eliot pulls a face. "We're not fucking in your dad's house."

"Good," Quentin laughs. "That would just be weird, even with soundproofing charms."

Margo rolls her eyes. "Weak, but whatever," she says. "I need a break from all of this rampant sexual energy that isn't directed at me. It's great that you guys can make each other scream, but I'm sick of playing third wheel."

Eliot sits up at that and turns to frown at her. "Bambi, you're not a third wheel."

"I know I'm your best bitch, sweetie," Margo says, and pats his cheek. "But I need to get laid, stat. There's only so much my vibrator can do."

"Hence the trip to a beach," Quentin says, nodding. "Gonna find some poor suckers and rock their worlds?"

Margo winks. "You know it, bitch."

* * *

Margo isn't exactly wrong. She leaves for Spain the following Monday, and with the Cottage to themselves Eliot and Quentin take full advantage of the opportunity to fuck all over it. Not that it would have stopped Eliot if Margo had still been there, but Quentin is still a little reserved around her. They're working on it.

And the sex is amazing. Eliot already knew that sex with Quentin is more incredible than with anyone else, but now that they're completely alone, Quentin is unrestrained. Eliot loses count of how many times he comes two days in. He's never felt like this before, crazed, like any moment he's not touching Quentin is a moment wasted. He doesn't know for sure, but it seems like Quentin feels the same way.

They slow down a little towards the end of the week. Eliot guesses that makes sense; they've tired each other out pretty thoroughly. Quentin starts going to bed earlier, starts sleeping in later, and Eliot is happy to follow his example. They still fuck, but it's lazy, languid, more often than not in bed or on the couch. It's perfect. Eliot loves it.

Margo is likely to be gone for at least two weeks, so they decide to spend the following weekend in New Jersey. Eliot is looking forward to it, and not only because they'll get a few days to recharge in preparation for their last week alone. Eliot likes Quentin's father, likes how accepting he is of Quentin and his relationship with Eliot. Likes how accepting he is of Eliot himself. He's never really felt at home around parents in general, but there's something about Ted that puts him at ease, makes him feel safe enough to drop his guard and lower the mask he wears around everyone else. At least he knows where Quentin got it from. It must be a Coldwater thing.

They arrange to leave on Friday morning. Quentin is even slower getting out of bed than he was yesterday, but Eliot indulges him, coaxes him awake with sweet, drugging kisses and the promise of breakfast. They're ready to go about an hour and a half after they planned, but they're in no rush, and Eliot tells Quentin as much as he tucks him under his arm.

The portal to New York is smooth, but the city is even busier than normal on this hot summer's day, and the train to New Jersey is packed. They manage to find one seat, which Eliot gives up to Quentin because he still looks tired and a little unsteady, and it's so hot it makes Eliot's head swim. It's a relief when they finally reach their stop and can hail a cab to Ted's house.

He's absolutely delighted to see them, even though they're late. He pulls Quentin in for a hug, and then Eliot, before they even get through the door. "Come in, come in, put your bags down. You can take them to your room later, who cares? How was the trip?"

"Crowded," Quentin grumps, setting his bag down and gathering his father in for another hug. "Sorry we're late; I slept in."

Ted frowns. "Is everything okay?"

Quentin gives Ted a smile. "Yeah, just enjoying being able to sleep in while I can, since we're halfway through the summer break."

"Well, make the most of it," Ted advises him. "Once you get out of college and start work, you'll never sleep in again."

"That's... so motivating, Dad, thanks," Quentin says sarcastically, shaking his head. "What've you been up to?"

Ted fills them in on what they've missed since they saw him last, like Quentin doesn't call him at least once a week, usually with Eliot curled up next to him. Eliot takes over the kitchen again around dinnertime, when Ted pulls out those famous Coldwater puppydog eyes and asks him if he feels like cooking. They have a perfectly pleasant day and an even nicer evening, lounging in the living room with the cocktails Eliot made and a couple of cheesy, feel-good movies. They go to bed fairly early, but Eliot has come to expect that in this house. Ted wishes them goodnight and doesn't bat an eyelash when Eliot follows Quentin into his bedroom. He never has, but it still surprises Eliot every time.

The next morning Eliot wakes up early. Quentin is still dead to the world, and a gentle wave of telekinesis throughout the house tells him that Ted has yet to stir. He stays in bed for as long as his bladder will allow him, and when he gets back from the bathroom he dresses and slips downstairs without disturbing either of them. He spends an hour pottering around the kitchen, putting away the dishes they washed last night and working out what he's going to make for breakfast, and then he makes himself a mug of coffee, snags a battered paperback from the bookshelf in the hallway that seems to house all of Quentin's rejects, the books he enjoyed but didn't love enough to earn them a spot in his bedroom, and heads to the living room.

He may joke, but Eliot Waugh is far from illiterate, although he doesn't actually enjoy reading in the same way that Quentin and Margo do. Still, he loses himself to the first few chapters of a quirky retelling of Little Red Riding Hood, and only looks up when he hears the stairs creak. It's Ted, as he finds out a moment later when the man himself appears in the doorway. Eliot smiles. "Good morning." He raises the book a little, gestures towards his mostly-empty mug on the coffee table. "I hope you don't mind."

"Not at all," Ted assures him, heading towards the kitchen to make his own cup of coffee. "That's a good one."

"You've read it?" Eliot asks. He makes a mental note of his page, knowing what Quentin would do to him if he dared dog-ear it, and gets up to follow Ted into the kitchen. "I assumed it was Quentin's."

"It is, but his reject books aren't just decorations," Ted says, amused. "Where do you think he got his love of fiction from?"

"I... don't know," Eliot admits, and that actually makes him feel bad. Quentin doesn't talk about his relationship with his mother much, but what he knows of it isn't great. He certainly didn't assume Quentin's love for books came from her - but for some reason it didn't strike him that it came from Ted. Possibly because he doesn't think his own father has ever read a book in his life that wasn't the Bible, and even then only the parts that suit him. "I guess I haven't really thought about it," he goes on. "But you like to read?"

"Oh, too much," Ted admits easily. "Westerns and sci-fi are usually my thing, but Q and I read the Fillory and Further books together. And I had more than a little bit to do with shaping his hatred of the Harry Potter books. I never did like Dumbledore. We'd spend hours sitting in the living room reading, and never realize we read right through dinner until one of us nearly passed out when we stood up."

Eliot smiles, soft and fond, at the image that paints. "I'm glad," he says quietly.

Ted smiles. "Q still asleep?"

"I guess so," Eliot says. "He's slept in for the past few days."

Ted frowns, adding some creamer to his coffee. "Going to bed earlier, too?"

Eliot blinks. "Yes," he says slowly.

"Hm. Well, don't let him spend all day in bed, no matter what you two get up to in it," Ted says, giving Eliot a smirk. "Make sure he gets some fresh air once in a while."

"Of course," Eliot says, frowning gently.

Ted nods. "Good. I'm glad he's got you, Eliot."

"Always," Eliot says. He smiles. "I bet the smell of bacon will be enough to get him up."

* * *

They leave Ted's house on Sunday in good spirits, and Eliot is optimistic enough to hope that they might return to their previously-scheduled programming once they get back to the Cottage. It's not the sex he's eager for, although he's certainly been enjoying himself these past few weeks, but Quentin hasn't been himself for a few days now. Eliot just wants the smile back on his face.

But that doesn't seem to be an option. Quentin is listless on Monday, lethargic and disinterested in anything Eliot has to offer, be it food or entertainment or company. He goes to bed early, silently shakes his head when Eliot offers to join him, and is fast asleep when Eliot finally comes to bed several hours later. He sleeps in later than Eliot would have thought possible, and still seems exhausted when he finally makes it downstairs.

It just gets worse from there - until, finally, despite all of Eliot's best efforts, Quentin doesn't get out of bed at all on Thursday. Eliot gives him until eight at night before he caves and calls Julia.

"Hey," he says, when she answers the phone. Even if Quentin was in any state to listen in, he's well out of earshot, pacing in the living room of the Cottage while Quentin wastes away in Eliot's bed upstairs. "I know this is a little out of left field. We don't really chat. But I think I need help."

"Okay," Julia says slowly, clearly confused. "What's going on? Why call me?"

"Because it's Quentin," Eliot says. "I think he's sick. He won't talk to me, won't eat, won't get out of bed. I've never seen him like this."

Julia swears. "Okay, um - He usually only gets this bad in winter. Has he been taking his pills?"

Eliot stops dead in the middle of the floor. "What pills?"

Julia doesn't answer for a moment. "For... his depression," she finally says, slow. "You know, his diagnosed, _clinical_ depression? And anxiety. And his Abilify, to help manage his Asperger's."

Eliot feels like the floor has dropped out from under him. " _What?_ "

Julia sighs, deep and heavy. "He never told you about any of that," she mutters, more to herself than to Eliot. "Of course. Look, Eliot - he has a couple of different pills he needs to be on to be a functioning human being, but sometimes he misses a dose, and then he starts feeling shitty, and then he doesn't take them on purpose, because - Because mental illness sucks, and depression fucks with his brain _bad._ Can you ask him if he's been taking his pills? Or I can come over, if you think you need the back-up."

"I think it's safe to say that he has not been," Eliot growls. "Can you get hold of a prescription if I can get him to take them?"

"Yes," Julia says without hesitation. "I'll get his refills going."

"Right," Eliot says. "I'm going to go talk some sense into him. I'll call you if I need you?"

"Call me either way," Julia says firmly, brooking no argument. 

"Yeah," Eliot agrees. He feels gutted. "Thank you, Julia."

It takes Eliot a little bit to get himself together enough to make his way back to the bedroom. Quentin hasn't moved since the last time Eliot saw him, and he's not staring at the wall - his eyes are closed - but he's not breathing deeply enough to be sleeping, either. He's just... lying there. Or at least, he is until Eliot draws close; then his eyes open, and he squints up at Eliot for a moment before his expression clears "Hey," he murmurs, and any other time, there'd be a pet name attached, a small smile to go with it. Now, there's nothing.

Eliot's stomach turns. "Sit up, Q," he says. "We need to talk."

That gets a reaction; Quentin's brow furrows, but he doesn't sit up, not yet. "About what?"

"This," Eliot says. "Come on."

The furrow deepens, but when Eliot doesn't say anything else, Quentin struggles to sit up, the blanket falling to his lap. "Okay, I'm up," he says, a little irritated. "What's going on?"

"I just got off the phone with Julia," Eliot says. He's doing his best not to loom over Quentin, but he's too wound up to sit down. "Is there anything you'd like to tell me?"

"How should I know? I don't know what you two talked about."

"We talked about you," Eliot says. He sighs. "Quentin, I know you. I can see you're struggling. Why won't you let me in?"

Quentin frowns, gaze dropping to the sheets. "Because it'll pass," he mutters. "It's nothing, I'll be fine."

"Baby," Eliot says, and finally sits down on the bed. He reaches for Quentin's hand. "Why didn't you tell me you're supposed to be taking meds for this?"

Quentin flinches. "I - " He sighs. "Jules told you." He hesitates, licking his lips before confessing, "I... never said anything, because I. I haven't been taking them since I got here. And I thought I was handling it, it was fine."

"Why haven't you been taking them?" Eliot asks, very carefully.

Quentin doesn't answer for a long moment. "When I was accepted," he finally says, voice low, "Dean Fogg... He said that. I should try not being on the medications. That a lot of Magicians who were on medication, once they had magic, it got better. They didn't need their meds."

"What a _fucking--_ " Eliot cuts himself off before he can completely lose his shit. He takes a breath, and tries again. "Quentin, that view is archaic, and wrong. Sweetheart, you have clinical depression. You're not just pissed off at the world, your brain chemistry is wired to make you _sad_. Magic doesn't fix that. In most cases, magic makes it worse."

Quentin frowns, still not looking up. "I was fine for the whole year, though."

"Were you?" Eliot asks, searching his face. "Or were you just distracted? Between classes and your dad and Alice and, well, me, you've had one thing after another to deal with. Now all of that's gone. You're crashing."

Quentin hesitates, conflict clear in his expression. "I-I don't know," he admits. 

"It's okay," Eliot tells him, soft, the way he would say it to a wounded animal. "It's okay to need help, Q. Julia's getting you a prescription. Just let us help."

"I - " Quentin stops, swallows hard enough that Eliot can see his throat work, his head bob. He finally, _finally_ looks up, then, and Eliot can see the sheen in his eyes as he nods, unable to say anything else. 

"Come here," Eliot says, and gathers Quentin into his arms before he can argue.

* * *

It takes Julia two days to get Quentin's refill, which Eliot spends trying his best to keep Quentin afloat. He manages to get him out of bed and into the shower each day, but he goes straight back to bed after, and will only eat if Eliot literally puts the food into his hands. Eliot can see how much he's trying, though, and it's breaking his heart.

Julia lets him know when she's outside, so he leaves Quentin briefly to go downstairs and let her in. She takes in the state of him, the dark circles under his eyes, his curly hair untamed, his shirt untucked, not a tie or a vest to be seen, and pulls him into a hug. It surprises him enough that it takes him a second to hug back, but she doesn't seem offended when they release each other.

"I know," is all she says. "Let's go see the patient."

Eliot takes her upstairs and does Quentin the courtesy of knocking before he enters the bedroom, though he knows Quentin won't have moved for the few minutes he was alone. "Q?" he says, his voice soft. "Julia's here."

"Hey handsome," Julia says. She steps neatly past Eliot and crawls up onto the bed to curl herself around Quentin. "How are you feeling?"

Quentin mumbles something, but curls into Julia the same way he's curled into Eliot for the past two days. "Hi, Jules," he manages, a little louder. 

"Hi, Q," Julia says, and pets his hair. It's not the cleanest it's ever been; while Eliot has been able to bully Quentin into the shower the last few days, washing his hair has been too much effort for either of them. "I brought your meds. Will you take them for us?"

"I - " Quentin swallows, nods. "Yeah."

Julia gives him a soft smile, and sits up. "Grab that," she says, gesturing to the glass of ice water that has been resting innocently on the nightstand and kept at the perfect temperature since this morning.

Quentin follows Julia's lead, grabbing the glass once he's upright. He holds a hand out for his pills. 

Julia already has them out of the bag, and she pops the pills into his palm. "You've got this, Q."

Quentin hesitates, biting his lip - and then he takes a sip of water, holds it while he tilts his head back and drops the pills into his mouth. He swallows, takes another sip, and then opens his mouth, showing that the pills are gone. "Okay?" he asks, sounding incredibly vulnerable. 

Eliot takes a halting step towards the bed at that, but he doesn't take another before Julia pulls Quentin into a hug. "You did great," she promises.

Quentin just sort of collapses into her arms, like being upright and taking pills was a Herculean effort. Maybe for him, it was. After a moment, he tilts his head, gives Eliot an exhausted smile. "Sorry for worrying you," he mutters. 

Eliot smiles back against the sting in his eyes. "Thank you for letting me help," he says softly.

Quentin's smile softens, and then he grumbles when Julia gives him a gentle nudge. "Get some more rest, let your pills start working," she murmurs. "I need to talk with your boyfriend."

Quentin nods, giving Julia one more squeeze before he lets her go, lying back down on the bed. Julia gives him a soft smile as she pushes herself to her feet, giving Eliot an expectant look and gesturing towards the hall. 

Eliot is honestly loathe to leave Quentin, but he leads the way out into the hall and then across to Margo's room. "What?" he asks, once the door is closed behind them.

"I just wanted to be sure you know what to expect," Julia says. "While the pills start kicking in. Obviously Q didn't tell you about any of this, so I just want to make sure you're prepared." 

"Okay," Eliot says, settling onto Margo's bed and doing his best not to look as guarded as he feels. "So prepare me."

"His mood will likely start getting better, and he'll start getting out of bed more," Julia starts, sitting in the chair at Margo's vanity. "But then he'll start having mood swings, while his body and hormones stabilize again. He might get snappish, or maybe sullen, for apparently no reason. That usually lasts about a week, sometimes two if it's been a really bad slump. I honestly don't know how it'll affect his libido, though, that's never something he's told me about."

"I don't care about that," Eliot says with a dismissive wave of his hand. "How do I help him?"

"Patience, and not letting him wallow," Julia sighs. "There's only so much we can do on the outside. Most of it needs to come from him. But it helps for him to know he's not alone, that he's got someone in his corner. But he hates being smothered, and sometimes he'll lash out if he's running short on his own patience. Don't take it personally. 

"Would it hurt more, me being there but not knowing how to handle it?" Eliot asks.

Julia considers that. "If he asks you for space, even if it's by lashing out, then give it to him - but check in in a little bit," she finally says. "Look in on him, text him, whatever. And make sure you tell him that's what you're doing before you leave. His brain tries to convince him that he's driven people away, made them so annoyed with him that they've just fucked off."

"Jesus," Eliot says, "okay. Thanks for the heads up."

Julia nods. "It's rough, for him and us," she says quietly. "But we have to support him, try to keep it from getting to the point where he has to go back to the hospital."

"The hospital," Eliot repeats. He knew about that, in some distant way. Quentin has mentioned it before, but he's never really thought about it, never really taken the time to consider what it meant. What it must continue to mean. You don't just get admitted to a psych ward and walk away cured. He grits his teeth, frustrated with himself. "Why didn't I know he needed meds?"

Julia's expression clouds. "The same reason I didn't know until his dad had to answer his phone and tell me he was in the hospital for the second time," she says. "He... gets these ideas, in his head. About how people will react, how they'll think. And even if he _knows_ they're the product of his mental illness, he can't shake those ideas. It's nothing you did, or he did, really. It's Fogg's fault for telling him that bullshit."

Eliot feels the disgust creep over his face. "We need to deal with that," he says.

Julia's expression darkens. "Oh, I'm planning on it," she mutters, drumming her fingers against her arm, having crossed them over her chest. "I don't give a shit if it gets me kicked out, but I'm going to Fogg right after this and giving him a piece of my mind."

Eliot winces. "I'm sorry for interrupting your summer," he says. "But thank you for helping with this."

"No thanks needed," Julia assures him. "Q's my best friend, I don't mind dropping things to help him."

"I'll let you know if we need you," Eliot promises. "I'm going to do my best to take care of him."

"I know you will." Julia's smile sharpens. "Or you'll be the next person I give a piece of my mind to."

Eliot just rolls his eyes. "That won't be necessary."

"Just in case," Julia hums. "You know what'll happen."

Julia leaves soon after that, setting off across campus with frightening determination. Eliot almost wishes he could go with her, witness the hell she's about to unleash on Fogg and maybe unleash a little of his own, but Quentin needs him. Quentin's still awake when Eliot returns to their room, and even though most of his body is hidden under the blankets he has tucked under his chin, it's easy to see the way his gaze flicks to the empty hallway behind Eliot, the downward curve of his lips. "Jules left?"

"She's gone to have a word with the dean," Eliot says, his tone careful. "She sends her love."

Quentin blinks, and then he snorts, mouth curving into a smile as he speaks. "You mean she's gone to tear him a new one," he murmurs. "Not joining her?"

Eliot shakes his head. "I'm exactly where I need to be. Unless you want to be alone?"

Quentin shakes his head, the blankets rustling until he can reach out to Eliot. "Come lie down with me?"

"Of course." Eliot doesn't hesitate to push away from the doorframe and crawl into bed with Quentin. He gathers him close, tucks his head beneath his chin, and kisses his hair. "Better?"

Quentin goes easily, sighing. "Much," he murmurs. 

Eliot takes a moment to breathe him in, but he can't stay quiet for long. "It doesn't have to be now," he says, "but we are going to need to have a conversation about why you didn't tell me."

Quentin doesn't answer for a long moment. "I thought... he was right," he finally says. "I went almost a whole year, and I was okay."

"Were you?" Eliot asks. "Be honest."

"Winter break was a little rough," Quentin admits. "And finals. But I... I wasn't _great._ But it wasn't awful, either."

Eliot hums. "And now? Why didn't you tell me you were struggling?"

There's an even longer silence this time; it goes on for so long that Eliot half-thinks Quentin won't answer. "Because I didn't want to bother you," he finally mutters. "Didn't want this to be... too much. Dealing with my shit and yours."

"Excuse yourself," Eliot says, only mildly offended. "What shit am I dealing with right now that's so big I can't help you with yours?"

"It's not just now, though," Quentin says, frustrated. "It - I never know when I'm going to hit a slump, and this is something I'm going to have to deal with for the rest of my life."

Eliot strokes his hair. "I know that," he says. "I see you. I love you. I know I don't say it often, but it's true. I need to know how to help you when it gets bad."

Quentin sighs. "I just - I was hoping it would go away."

There's nothing Eliot can say to that without sounding harsh, so he just gives Quentin a squeeze. "Well, I know now," he murmurs. "You're not alone in this."

Quentin sighs, but doesn't answer; he just settles in more heavily against Eliot, his own arms tightening around his waist. 

* * *

Quentin is clingy for the next few days, but it means that he's willing to get out of bed in order to follow Eliot around, so Eliot is counting it as a win. They do everything together for the rest of the weekend, and Eliot is so grateful that Quentin is coming back to himself that he doesn't once bitch about needing his own space. He _doesn't_ need his own space. He needs Quentin, close enough to touch, free with his affection and his sweet smiles, snarking because he's hungry - he has an appetite again! - or because Eliot didn't understand the obscure literary reference he just made. They're not out of the woods yet, not by any means - Quentin is still sullen, still exhausted and irritable and jumpy - but they're getting there. That's all that matters.

Eliot rises early on Monday to make them a lavish breakfast. Quentin gets up with him and shadows him all around the kitchen, so after breakfast Eliot bullies him onto the couch, drapes a blanket over the both of them and pulls him close. They doze like that on and off for a few hours, warm and content, until Margo walks into the room and scares the shit out of them.

"Bambi," Eliot says, barely keeping Quentin from tumbling to the floor with how quickly they both sat up. "I thought you might stay for another week."

"I've already been gone for two, and for some reason, I missed you dicks," she says, giving Eliot a sunny smile, her skin glowing in a sun-bronzed way. "But if you didn't miss me, I can always leave again until you do."

"No, no," Eliot says, tugging Quentin back against his chest. "We missed you. We're just... napping."

"Is that what you two are calling it now?" Margo teases, dropping into the nearby armchair with a sigh. 

"Why did we miss you, again?" Quentin grumps; he can't hide a small smile, though, and Margo makes a kissy face at him. 

Eliot cards his fingers through Quentin's hair, something he's taken to doing quite a lot over the past week or so, and smiles at Margo. "How was your trip?"

Quentin pushes into the touch the way he always does, sticking his tongue out at Margo when she raises an eyebrow. She returns the gesture before settling back into her chair; her expression turns smug and well-sated. "Oh, it was _exactly_ what I needed."

"Decent dick, then," Eliot surmises.

"Not just dick," Margo says with a satisfied sigh. 

Quentin makes a face. "We don't need to hear _all_ the details of your sex adventures," he complains, but it lacks heat. 

"Yes we do," Eliot says, still petting Quentin's hair.

Quentin rolls his eyes while Margo snickers. "What did you two get up to?" she asks, looking at them expectantly.

"Oh, you know," Eliot says mildly. "We just... relaxed."

"Boring," Margo sighs, idly reaching out with one foot to poke at Eliot's arm. "You're all _domestic_ now, I can't decide if it’s disgusting or adorable."

Eliot sighs. "I've been ruined, I know," he laments. "My reputation is in tatters. But I'm not mad at it."

"Not when the trade-off is a cute nerd like Q?" Margo asks, wry and teasing. 

Eliot grins and kisses Quentin's temple. "Exactly."

* * *

Quentin is weird for the rest of the day, more withdrawn and anxious than he has been since he started taking his meds again. Eliot puts it down to Margo's presence, but when Quentin pulls away from his touch while they're getting ready for bed, he starts to think it's more than that. "Is something up?" he asks, frowning.

Quentin hesitates, clearly debating whether or not to answer, but after a moment he swallows hard and says, "I just. I don't want to hold you back. When Margo said you were domesticated, and you said your reputation was ruined.... I don't think I'm a good trade, for that."

Eliot rolls his eyes. "Oh, come on, Q."

"I'm not - not a social person, El, you know this," Quentin says, frustrated. "But you thrive like that."

"That doesn't matter," Eliot tells him. "I'm capable of socialising without you, and I'm also capable of having a quiet night in with you."

"Yeah, but..." Quentin sighs. "I hardly ever socialise the way you do. I don't... spend a lot of time in your world, I guess?"

"You come to my parties," Eliot argues. "You sit in the reading nook with Alice all night, but you come."

"You spend a lot more time having quiet nights with me, though."

"And I love those nights," Eliot says. He tries to approach Quentin once more. "Baby, please don't think that when I'm with you there's anywhere else I'd rather be."

Quentin doesn't shy away, but he doesn't make any move to lean into Eliot, either. "I know it's not what you usually did, though," he says, but it's a little more uncertain now. "I knew you for almost a year before we got together."

Eliot closes the remaining distance for him and wraps his arms around Quentin. "But you also know that a lot about that version of me was fake," he points out. "I wasn't fucking even half as many people as you all thought I was. I wasn't happy. I love being behind the bar, I love hosting the parties and making sure everyone has a good time. But I also love you. I can be myself around you."

Quentin tentatively leans into Eliot. "I just... don't want to hold you back. I don't want you to be stuck taking care of me," he says quietly. 

"I'm not," Eliot promises. "We're different, but we're not incompatible. I'm never stuck with you."

Quentin finally loops his arms around Eliot's waist. "Okay," he murmurs. "Sorry. My brain got stuck on that."

"It's okay," Eliot murmurs, and brings one hand up to cradle the back of Quentin's head. "You're safe with me, Q. Please talk to me about this stuff."

Quentin nods, face hidden against Eliot's chest. "I'll try," he promises in a mumble; it's the best he can do. 

* * *

The next day is fairly quiet; it's easy for the three of them to slip back into the same rhythm they'd established in the first part of the summer. Margo definitely notices how clingy Quentin is, though; Eliot catches her watching the two of them thoughtfully more than once. Finally, she seizes her opportunity in the form of Quentin disappearing for a bathroom break to corner Eliot. "Alright, what's up with the limpet routine?" she demands. "I mean, you two were cuddly before, but _this_ is new."

Eliot sighs. "Please don't say anything to him about it," he says. "We've had a rough few weeks, and he's still fragile."

Margo frowns. "What do you mean?"

"He... hasn't been taking his meds," Eliot says. "All year. Which is intense, especially because I didn't even know he was supposed to be _on_ meds. It was pretty bad, after you left. I managed to get a hold of Julia and she got him a refill for his prescription, but now it's a case of waiting for his body to balance itself out again."

Margo's eyes widen. "All _year?_ Why the fuck was he off of them that long?" she demands. 

"Because Fogg told him he didn't need them once he passed the entrance exam."

Margo is actually struck dumb for a moment. "That _dickweasel,_ " she snarls. "Did Wicker fucking gank him? Please tell me she did."

"Once she'd made Q take his meds she took off to deal with it," Eliot says. "I've been texting her updates, but I've been more focused on him."

Margo nods. "Good. So, what do I need to do? What does Q need from his friends?"

"Just be gentle with him?" Eliot asks. "For a little while, at least. He got really in his head yesterday, after we talked about how being with him has changed me."

Margo looks briefly conflicted, but then he sets her jaw and nods. "Okay. I can - _try._ "

Eliot smiles. "You don't need to treat him like he's made of glass," he tells her. "Just don't be a total bitch."

Margo gives him a playful shove. "Excuse _you,_ this is me we're talking about," she sniffs. "I _am_ a total, boss-ass bitch."

Eliot rolls his eyes, but he's grinning. "Of course you are."

* * *

Despite Margo's self-proclaimed bitchiness, she _is_ a little more careful with Quentin for the rest of that week. She doesn't treat him with kid gloves, but she also isn't as... _much_ as she usually is. Quentin informs Eliot that he knows Eliot talked to Margo at some point - but also tells him that he appreciates that she's reining herself in, even if he'd never tell Margo that to her face and draw attention to it. 

The three of them don't really do much of anything until the weekend, when Margo disappears into the city with the intention of getting laid, and Eliot and Quentin go see a re-run of _The Chronicles of Narnia: Prince Caspian_ at one of New York's oldest theaters. They enjoy themselves, munching on theater popcorn and teasing each other about the hot actors. Once they're out of the theater and back on the street heading for the portal back to Brakebills, Quentin launches into a breakdown of the movie, gesturing emphatically with his unoccupied hand; the occupied one is clasped in Eliot's. He keeps up the analysis of the movie - and the series as a whole - all the way through the portal, until he and Eliot are walking back towards the Cottage. "I guess I just - I don't really like the whole. 'Chosen by Furry God' thing," he says. "Especially not when it's white Europeans who always get chosen. I mean, Fillory has its own issue with that, with the whole High King thing, but like. Ember and Umber aren't explicitly God and the Devil, y'know? But in Narnia, the Pevensies set up a precedent for an entire country that's basically fantasy England to take over this really fascinating, diverse fantasy land. At least Fillory already had actually human people before the Chatwins showed up." Quentin suddenly seems to realize that he's been talking for a solid half an hour, because he flushes, and his gaze drops to his feet. "Sorry, I know you're not really... into this sort of like, literary analysis stuff."

But Eliot just smiles at him and squeezes his hand. "I'm into _you_ ," he says. "You're kind of beautiful when you talk about this stuff."

Quentin flushes, bumping Eliot playfully with his shoulder. "You just like seeing me wound up."

"I like seeing you excited," Eliot corrects him. "About anything. Especially now."

Quentin rolls his eyes, but he can't hide his pleased smile. "I'm feeling more like myself," he admits, quiet. "I almost forgot what that felt like."

"Julia said it can take a few weeks for the meds to even things out," Eliot admits. "I knew you were in there somewhere."

Quentin sighs. "Yeah. I think I'm almost used to them again, though? The vague nausea has almost completely disappeared, and it's easier to get out of bed."

Eliot pulls Quentin close and kisses his temple. "I've noticed," he says. "You're doing so well."

Quentin flushes, but he's smiling. "Thanks," he says. 

They reach the Cottage shortly after that, and Eliot lets them in with a casual wave of his hand that has the front door swinging open. Margo is nowhere to be seen, so Eliot pauses to kiss Quentin in the doorway and then pulls away. "Do you want a nightcap before bed?"

Quentin considers that for a moment. "Just a small one," he decides. 

Eliot heads around the bar and pulls out two dainty glasses and a cocktail shaker. "Margo won't let me make this," he says, measuring cognac into the shaker. "She thinks it's too sweet. But you'll like it."

Quentin snorts. "Margo doesn't like _anything_ sweet, if it's not a baked good," he jokes. 

Eliot's eyes sparkle. "She likes you," he says.

Quentin rolls his eyes, a pleased smile on his lips. "You're such a fucking sap," he sighs. 

Eliot grins back. "You love me."

"Of course I do," Quentin laughs. "Doesn't make you any less of a sap. What's this drink you're making, anyway?"

"Brandy Alexander," Eliot tells him. "With a little magical twist." He sets the shaker down long enough to work his hands through a few tuts. The glasses frost over for a moment, and then he strains the cocktail between them. "Margo's always better at the chilling part, but I'm not horrendous. Try that."

”Margo’s discipline is _literally_ ice, of course she’s better at the chilling part,” Quentin laughs, taking the glass Eliot hands him. He considers it for a moment before taking a sip, humming in surprise. “Wow, okay. That’s pretty good - but _definitely_ too sweet for Margo.”

Eliot smiles, bright and pleased. "I knew you'd like it," he says. "Come on, let's take them upstairs."

Quentin obligingly follows Eliot up the stairs, and to what he's still thinking of as _their_ room. He still has his own, technically, but it's really nothing more than a glorified study space with a closet at this point. They settle onto the bed, and Quentin grabs his book from the bedside table before he leans into Eliot comfortably. "Want me to read to you?"

"Mmm," Eliot hums into his glass. "Yes, please."

The two of them slowly sip their drinks as Quentin works his way through _The Hobbit._ Eliot cares more about listening to Quentin's voice and trying to distract him with wandering hands and sarcastic comments than he does about the contents of the book, but Quentin still lasts from Bag End all the way to the Mirkwood before he finally caves to Eliot's distractions. Their empty glasses are levitated to Eliot's dresser as Quentin finally sets the book aside, rolling back over to press himself close to Eliot and give him a mock scowl. "You have no appreciation for classic fantasy," he complains. "Why am I so interested in you, again?"

"Because I'm gorgeous," Eliot says, grinning, as he slides his hands beneath Quentin's t-shirt and grips his waist.

"I suppose you do have a nice ass," Quentin says thoughtfully, unable to resist grinning. "And the hair's not bad."

"Oh, 'not bad'," Eliot teases, his smile sharpening as he lies back, pulling Quentin over him. "I've never been so insulted."

"I only speak the truth," Quentin says haughtily, though the effect is somewhat ruined by the way he can't stop grinning as he settles more comfortably over Eliot. "Gonna change my mind?"

"Maybe I will," Eliot says, and pulls him down for a kiss.

Quentin goes easily, happily losing himself to the familiar rhythm of kissing Eliot. He honestly loses track of time - a not uncommon occurrence when they're laid out like this. He starts to come back to himself when Eliot's hand roams down towards his ass; when Eliot's other joins the first, the both of them kneading slowly, Quentin pulls back. "El, wait," he gasps, breathless from their kisses. 

Eliot pulls his hands away like he's been burned. "Sorry," he says, a little breathless himself. "Sorry, I got carried away."

"It's fine," Quentin assures him, ducking in for another, softer kiss. "Just - I'm not really in the mood for sex tonight."

"That's fine," Eliot is quick to assure him. "Do you want to stop?"

Quentin gives Eliot a small smile. "Not entirely," he says. "I was enjoying the kissing bit a lot."

Eliot smiles back. "I like the kissing bit."

"Then get back here and do it again."

* * *

A few days later Quentin goes upstairs for an afternoon nap, his first since he started taking his meds again. Eliot looks at him with obvious concern when he announces his intention to do so, but he assures him that this has nothing to do with his depression, he just stayed up way too late last night reading. Besides, Margo's started to get a little testy with both of them, and since she's made no secret of how much time she's been spending with her favourite vibrator, he can only assume that she's in need of some serious alone time with Eliot.

He only sleeps for a couple of hours or so before he wakes up starving. Eliot has been embracing the return of Quentin's appetite with open arms, so hopefully he won't be too annoyed by his early return. He goes downstairs, lightfooted in socks, and isn't surprised to find them curled up together on the couch, engrossed in conversation.

"--life saver," Eliot is saying. "I mean, I know I can't complain, I'm _not_ complaining, but. You know. Thank God you're a goddess."

Quentin pauses, and ducks around the corner to listen in for a moment. Margo sounds extremely self-satisfied. "You're damn right I am. Besides, I wasn't working on it _just_ for you; I'm going to have a lot of fun with this little spell myself."

Eliot barks a sharp, delighted laugh. "Oh, you're going to change lives," he says. "You'll be the talk of the school within weeks. Days."

"If I'm not the talk of the school within _hours_ of the first time I use this, I will be very disappointed," Margo tells him, smirking. 

Quentin can't hold back a snort, and gives up trying to hide. He comes around the corner, giving Eliot and Margo a bemused look as he asks, " _What_ are you two talking about?"

Eliot turns to give him a bright smile over the back of the couch. "Darling," he says, reaching out. "How are you feeling?"

"Better," Quentin hums, coming closer so he can bend down and drop a kiss to Eliot's cheek. "What are you two planning this time?"

"World domination," Eliot says breezily. "How was your nap?"

"Good," Quentin answers. "Not so long that I'll be up too late tonight. Do we have plans for dinner yet?"

Eliot's whole face lights up. "It's open to negotiation," he says. "Why? Are you hungry?"

"Yeah," Quentin says with a smile. "I'm a little hungry."

Eliot pats Margo's knee and gets to his feet. "Come on then," he says. "Let's see what tickles your appetite."

* * *

The three of them have a good evening together, even if Margo _does_ give Quentin too many knowing looks for him to feel strictly comfortable. Still, she doesn't say anything, so neither does Quentin. He and Eliot go to bed a bit later than usual, but Eliot doesn't behave any differently, so Quentin does his best to put their conversation and Margo's odd behavior out of his mind. 

He succeeds for the next three days; he spends a day with Julia, and then he and Eliot visit his dad again for another couple of days. On the third day, however, Quentin returns from a trip to the library to find the Cottage eerily quiet. Margo is nowhere to be seen, and neither is Eliot. Quentin considers calling out, but figures they've probably ducked into the city for dinner, and will be back soon, and he needs a shower. He takes his time, enjoying the hot water and frankly fantastic water pressure and even taking a few moments to indulge in the slowly-returning heat in his gut, stroking himself idly. Nothing comes of it, but Quentin's used to that; every time he comes out if a major depressive slump, his libido is the last thing to recover. 

Quentin finally gets out of the shower, drying himself off and wrapping a towel around his waist out of habit. He holds onto the corners as he ducks across the hall, opening the door to Eliot's bedroom - only to stop dead in his tracks and nearly drop the towel at the sight that greets him. 

Eliot is completely naked, his legs spread, his head thrown back in ecstasy. One hand is working between his thighs, and the slick sounds and deep, breathy moans that mean he's _loving it_ are filling the room. It's not an unfamiliar sight, nor an unwelcome one, but when Quentin drops his gaze he does not see, as he expected, Eliot's fingers working over his cunt. Instead, Eliot's hand is wrapped around - a cock. A real cock.

"Oh my _God_ ," Eliot groans, and right before Quentin's eyes precome leaks out of the slit. He's lost to it, oblivious to Quentin's presence, his hips arching off the bed as he fucks his own fist.

"Holy _shit,_ " Quentin blurts, unable to stop himself. "Is _that_ what Margo was helping you with?"

Eliot yelps and struggles to sit up, his eyes wide. "Fuck, Q, I didn't hear you come in."

"I thought you and Margo were out, so I didn't bother knocking," Quentin says, sheepish. "And you were clearly... occupied."

"Well, yeah," Eliot says. He looks more awkward than turned on now, and he closes his legs. "Sorry, look, I'll reverse it and we can--"

"You don't have to stop," Quentin says hastily. "Not on my account. It was... really fucking hot, actually."

Eliot's eyebrows shoot up into his hairline. "Really?"

Quentin finally steps fully into the room, letting the door shut behind him. "Yeah," he says, nodding. "It was hot, and you were obviously enjoying yourself."

Eliot sits up a little more, making room for Quentin on the bed. "I thought we weren't doing that right now," he admits.

Quentin settles into the open space. "Well, I mean. We weren't," he concedes. "But I - I might not be able to actually like. Come. Because sometimes that just takes a lot of time and effort and isn't worth it. But I do want to make you feel good."

"If you're sure," Eliot says. "I don't want you to feel, like, pressured."

Quentin smiles softly. "I never feel pressured with you," he promises. "If you're comfortable with it, I want to see how this works, maybe do a little bit of touching?"

"I'm yours," Eliot tells him, and lets his knees fall open again. "Do whatever you want."

Quentin's smile grows, and he lets go of the towel, ignoring it in favor of reaching for Eliot. He tugs Eliot in for a kiss, letting it linger as his hand drifts over Eliot's neck, shoulder, in to his chest. "So that's like... fully functional?" he asks when they pull apart, gaze drifting down to Eliot's lap. "Looks pretty realistic."

"I mean, it's a dildo," Eliot says, a smile gracing his lips. "I can feel it, and it gets wet when I do, but I can't, like, come, the way you can. It's not a permanent thing."

Quentin hums thoughtfully, his hand drifting farther down, until he can take Eliot's cock in hand and stroke once, slowly. It _feels_ real enough - like it's skin beneath his hand, not silicone. There's heat to it, as well, and of course the precome at the slit, which Quentin gathers with his thumb. "Is this yours? Or like. Lube?"

"Mine," Eliot says, his voice gone breathy. "Margo could probably tell you how it works, I don't--" He laughs. "I don't really care."

Quentin grins, kissing Eliot again before he lifts his hand, bringing his thumb to his mouth and sucking it clean. "Tastes like yours," he hums. He reaches down, takes Eliot in hand again, and starts stroking. He goes slowly at first, marveling at the weight and feel of Eliot's _dick_ in his hand, but when Eliot makes a breathless noise, Quentin speeds his hand, twisting his wrist on the upstroke experimentally. 

"Fuck," Eliot sighs, tipping his head back against the headboard. His hips twitch, but he doesn't start fucking up into Quentin's hand, not yet.

Quentin smiles, pressing a kiss to Eliot's jaw. "You're so fucking hot," he murmurs, varying his strokes, trying to see what feels best. "God, whose idea was it to give you a dick this big? It's a little unfair - but proportional, I guess."

Eliot laughs again. "It was actually a gift," he pants. "I had-- intentions for it, even before Margo perfected the spell."

Quentin grins. "What did you buy this for, El?"

"Well," Eliot gasps, "I have this theory that you're a size queen."

Quentin can't help the way his grip tightens reflexively. "I mean. You're not wrong," he says, breathless himself. "Did you buy this to fuck me with?"

Eliot's dick twitches in Quentin's hand. "Ah, fuck. Maybe."

"Could you fuck me with it like this?" Quentin asks, curious. "Is the spell strong enough for that?" 

Eliot's laugh is a little more strangled this time. "Margo didn't just design this spell for me," he says. "What do you think?"

Quentin chuckles. "She wants to use it, too," he deduces. "Well. I wanna blow you; can I?"

" _Fuck_ yes."

Quentin grins, shifting off of the bed, dropping to his knees in front of Eliot. He fidgets for a moment, getting comfortable and reaching for Eliot's hips, tugging him closer to the edge of the bed. "God, I love getting my mouth on you," he sighs, hand returning to stroking Eliot's cock. "Can't wait to see what this is like."

"Then stop teasing," Eliot complains, though he's laughing.

Quentin grins, a little cheeky - but he does as bid. His hand stills, steadying the base of Eliot's cock, and he leans in to lick a broad strip up the underside, tonguing the slit on the head before he takes it into his mouth, hollowness his cheeks as he shifts, rising onto his knees so he can bob his head without giving himself a crick in his neck. Above him, Eliot melts back onto his elbows, a shaky breath escaping him.

"Oh, shit," he sighs. "That's... different."

Quentin hums quietly, tongue curling around the head as he pulls back. It's been a while since he's given a blowjob - years, in fact - but he takes his time adjusting to the size of Eliot's dick, settling into the pleasant ache in his jaw as he works his head and his tongue and his hand in sync and in counterpoint, figuring out what will drive Eliot wild with this new thing they can do. 

It doesn't take long to find a rhythm that works. Eliot's hands are in Quentin's hair, and he's as loud as he's ever been, his moans directing Quentin as much as his breathless words of encouragement. He loses even those after a while, and holds himself taught so as not to fuck up into Quentin's mouth, his whole body trembling and his cock growing impossibly harder against Quentin's tongue. "Fuck," he gasps. "Fuck, I'm gonna _come_."

Quentin just makes an encouraging noise and takes Eliot in deeper, until the head of his cock nudges the back of his throat. 

That does it. Eliot's breathing goes ragged, and he comes without a sound. He doesn't come the way Quentin does, but there's definitely enough leaking from the head of his cock to make Quentin back off, so he doesn't choke. He still swallows, still licks Eliot clean, and when Eliot finally shoves him away, Quentin grins up at him. "That was _really_ fucking hot," he informs Eliot. 

"I mean," Eliot pants, laughing, "you're not wrong. Fuck"

Quentin's grin widens, and when he goes to push to his feet, he pauses. Glancing down, he sees his own cock standing at attention, leaking so much precome that he's surprised he hasn't noticed it before now. He laughs, quietly, and finishes rising to his feet, pulling Eliot in for a searing kiss. "Looks like I might be up for a little more than I thought," he jokes. 

Eliot moans into Quentin's mouth as they tumble back onto the bed. "Whatever you want," he sighs. "I could return the favour, or you could fuck me?"

Quentin hesitates for a moment. "Or... I mean. You're still hard. You could... fuck me? Since you bought the dildo for that and all."

"Are you sure?" Eliot asks, his eyes wide. "It's okay if you're not ready."

Quentin smiles, ducking in for another kiss before he replies. "I wouldn't suggest it if I wasn't sure I was ready to at least _try,_ " he says. 

Eliot kisses him again. "Have you ever--?"

"Once, sophomore year," Quentin says truthfully. "It wasn't _bad,_ but it wasn't great, either."

Eliot winces in sympathy. "Then we'll work it out together."

Quentin grins. "I don't think you can fuck me badly," he says, half-serious, half-teasing. "I've got faith in you."

"Good to know," Eliot says, and reaches between them to wrap a hand around Quentin's cock.

Quentin sighs a soft sound, shifting forward so that he can settle onto Eliot's lap. It's one of his favorite places to be, and he kind of wants to ride Eliot. Not today, that sounds like a little too much effort, but one day soon. He reaches up, lets his hands curl around Eliot's shoulders, kneading slightly as he rocks into Eliot's grip. "That feels good," he hums, pressing a kiss to Eliot's jaw. "I love your hands; have I ever mentioned that?"

"Maybe once or twice," Eliot says, smug. "But just wait until my fingers are inside you."

Quentin whines at the promise in Eliot's voice. "I want that," he says, breathless. His hands are kneading restlessly at Eliot's shoulders, pupils blown wide with lust. " _Please._ "

Eliot shushes him, stroking his cock in a long, smooth motion that makes Quentin keen. He teases Quentin for another moment or two - Quentin couldn't keep track if he wanted to, honestly - before finally using one hand to summon the lube from his bedside table. The little bottle flies obediently to his hand, and Eliot presses in close, gives Quentin a kiss that makes him melt, and then rolls them, laying Quentin out on the bed. "That will never not be hot," Quentin informs him with a breathless laugh that Eliot echoes. 

Quentin isn't laughing for long, though, when Eliot's hand moves between his thighs, when he starts working Quentin open with careful motions. He moans for Eliot then - moans, and whines, and _begs_ until he can't take it anymore and grips Eliot's shoulders hard enough to bruise. " _El,_ " he gasps, " _please_ give me your goddamned cock already."

Eliot chuckles, deep and pleased like he knows exactly what he's doing to Quentin, but he eases his fingers free and presses himself between Quentin's thighs, leaning down to kiss him soundly. "Like this?" he asks, breathless with want.

Quentin wraps his legs around Eliot's waist, arms looping around his neck. "Yes," he breathes, one hand tangling in Eliot's hair to pull him in for another kiss. "Just like this."

Eliot sighs into the kiss, but he doesn't give Quentin what he wants just yet. "I can get a condom," he offers, mumbling the words into Quentin's mouth. "Easier clean up. Or I can just... fuck you bare."

Quentin actually takes a moment to think about it, but - "No condom," he decides. "Wanna feel you."

"Whatever you want," Eliot promises. He reaches between them to take himself in hand, working what's left of the lube over his cock, and then finally starts to press into Quentin.

Quentin makes a breathless sort of noise, hands dropping to knead at Eliot's shoulders as he breathes deeply through the stretch. "Fuck, you're big," he murmurs, letting his head fall back and his eyes close, just _feeling_ everything that Eliot's doing to him. 

"Knew you'd like it," Eliot sighs, breathless and smiling. "Fuck, I've never-- You feel so good."

"Yeah?" Quentin's tone is encouraging, the word breathless. "Tell me."

So Eliot does. He fucks him, slow and deep, and tells Quentin all about how hot he is, how tight; how he feels better than Eliot ever imagined he would; how the sweet clench of Quentin's body every time Eliot finds his prostate is exquisite.

It's not going to last long. It's Eliot's first time truly inside another person, and it's his first time fucking this beautiful, responsive man; it feels too good, even as Eliot wishes it could last forever. So he pulls out all the stops, touches Quentin in all the ways he knows drive him wild, and keeps talking, a steady stream of filth mixed in with tender praise that never fails to bring Quentin to the brink of ecstasy.

He's not far off himself now. His rhythm has yet to falter, but he's fucking Quentin deeper now, harder, earning himself little punched-out moans and pleas for Eliot to not stop, _never stop._ Eliot is going to lose his mind.

"I'm close," he gasps. "Oh my God, Q. Sweetheart. You're so good. You're so good for me."

Quentin makes a needy little noise, back arching as he pushes himself down to meet Eliot's thrusts. "'M close, too," he mumbles, sounding half-drunk. "Just - don't stop, just like that." One hand leaves Eliot's shoulders, drifts down to wrap around his leaking cock and stroke himself, pushing closer and closer to the edge. 

"That's it," Eliot moans. "Make yourself come for me, baby."

Quentin's only answer is a breathless whine, and he thinks for a moment maybe he can't - but then the tension in his gut _snaps,_ and he's spilling over his fist. 

"Fuck," Eliot gasps, his hips finally losing their rhythm. "Fuck, _yes_." He cries out a moment later, his cock jerking inside Quentin as he comes hard enough to see stars.

Quentin clings to Eliot as they both shiver through the aftershocks, and he eagerly welcomes the weight of Eliot collapsing on top of him, tugging Eliot in for several long, slow kisses. "Fuck, that was amazing," he sighs, fingers carding through Eliot's hair, tugging lightly at his curls. 

Eliot sighs happily, grins against Quentin's cheek. "Glad I didn't disappoint," he teases.

"You never do," Quentin tells him, serious. "But this was... on a whole other level. I absolutely want to do this again some day."

"Trust me," Eliot laughs. "I'm not complaining. I think we owe Margo a gift hamper. Possibly filled with vibrators."

Quentin snickers. “If we get her vibrating dildos, will the vibrators still work while using this spell?” he wonders.

Eliot blinks. "You want to give me a _vibrating cock?_ " he demands. His eyes widen. "That... is _inspired_."

"I mean, I was asking because that seemed like the sort of thing Margo would be into, but..." Quentin trails off, imagination running away with him for a moment. "Actually, uh. Yeah, that sounds pretty. Fun."

"Shit," Eliot laughs. "Stop it. If I try to go again, I think I'll die."

Quentin chuckles, tugging Eliot in for a kiss. "Alright, alright," he says. "Let's clean up and go to sleep. We can talk about vibrating dildos tomorrow."

"What an excellent plan." Eliot kisses Quentin again, and then winces. "Okay. I can't go soft, so just... bear with me."

Quentin winces as well, hissing a little as Eliot's cock slips free, but he doesn't complain, and welcomes Eliot eagerly into his arms again. "Hey," he murmurs, pressing a kiss to Eliot's jaw. "I think you finally changed my mind on sex and brownies."

Eliot pauses, thrown - and then he _laughs._

* * *

Eliot and Quentin spend the next few days thoroughly exploring all the ways to enjoy this development in their sex lives, but with Quentin finally on his way back to normal - or as normal as Quentin gets, anyway - Margo starts making noises about how much she misses Eliot. It feels like it's only fair to give them some space after Margo left them alone together for two whole weeks, so Quentin decides to spend a weekend in New Jersey with Julia and his dad. Eliot tells him he doesn't have to go, that if he really wants to go Eliot will go with him, but Quentin just shakes his head and tells him to have fun with Margo. He's not even being a self-sacrificing idiot for once. He knows Eliot and Margo come as a package deal, and it's not like he hates spending time back home. It's just that Brakebills, and wherever Eliot happens to be in particular, feels a little more like his real home each day - but that just means that coming back will be even sweeter. Absence makes the heart grow fonder, and all that.

He has a good time. Julia is a little overbearing but mostly just pleased to see him back to his usual self; his dad is happy to see him as always, though he does complain that Eliot didn't come with him this time. He extracts a promise from Quentin to bring him home for Christmas just as he's leaving, which Quentin hands over far more readily than he thinks Eliot will agree. Julia seems to think so, too, but she tells Quentin that she knows he has Eliot wrapped around his finger as she hugs him goodbye, promising to see him soon. It's been a good trip, but he's definitely ready to go _home_.

He arrives back at the Cottage with little fanfare sometime in the early afternoon. He half expects to find the welcome-home party in full swing, or else to find Margo and Eliot completely smashed and unaware that he was due back so soon, but he finds neither. Instead, he's greeted by an apparently-empty Cottage, Lady Gaga belting her way through Poker Face, and the most heavenly smell. The last two he follows to the kitchen, where he finds Margo sipping a bright green cocktail from her perch on the kitchen table, and Eliot...

"What's going on here?" Quentin asks, trying not to laugh.

"He's stress-baking," Margo says blithely.

Eliot is carefully taking a tray of cookies out of the oven, and doesn't look up. "Welcome home, darling. I am not _stress-baking_ ; I am simply preparing myself for the return of everyone else who lives here next week."

" _And_ ," Margo says, honey-sweet, "working himself into an anxious mess over the fact that he has a meeting with Fogg on the first day of classes. To talk about his _thesis_."

Quentin blinks. "That soon?" he asks, stepping into the kitchen and leaning against the counter next to Margo. "Well, the sooner you get started, the sooner you can finish."

"Shut your whore mouths, both of you," Eliot hisses. "This has nothing to do with that. And Fogg is just being an asshole."

"How is he being an asshole?" Quentin asks, amused but indulging. 

"Because," Margo says, with infinite wisdom, "he knows that if he doesn't provide Eliot with some focus early on, he'll crash the fuck out and have to repeat the year."

Cookies safely out of the oven and on the counter, Eliot whips around to point at Margo, his eyes blazing. "What did I just tell you?"

Margo shrugs, unconcerned. "I speak only the truth."

Quentin takes pity on Eliot. "What about you, though?" he asks, nudging Margo. "What are _you_ doing about your thesis?"

Margo nudges him right back. "Everything's under control, you cock," she says. "Sunderland and I nailed my thesis statement last semester."

"Show-off," Eliot snaps.

Quentin pokes her in the shoulder this time. "Well, quit picking on my boyfriend," he laughs. "I'll make sure he gets graduated on time; I love him, but I couldn't deal with the dramatics if he had to repeat the year."

"I hate you both," Eliot says. "See if you get any cookies."

Quentin leaves Margo's side, moving over to Eliot so he can loop his arms around Eliot's waist and pout. "Really? No cookies for your boyfriend?"

"Absolutely not," Eliot says snippily, though he does wrap his arms around Quentin and kiss his forehead. "You could have a cupcake."

Quentin lets his pout get more dramatic. "What if I don't want a cupcake, though?"

"That's too bad," Eliot says, laughter teasing at the corners of his mouth. "They're not cool yet."

"What about when they're cool?" Quentin asks hopefully.

Eliot rolls his eyes. "If you're very, very nice to me."

"What about me?" Margo asks, all big doe eyes and simpering sweetness. "I'm nice to you."

"You're a harpy," Eliot says.

Margo scowls. "Fucker."

Quentin hides his grin against Eliot before he plasters on an overly-thoughtful expression. "I don't know, I mean, Margo _is_ responsible for some of our best orgasms lately."

"And don't you dare forget it," Margo sniffs.

Eliot relents. "Fine," he says, hiding his smile in Quentin's hair. "Have whatever you want, both of you."

* * *

Night is drawing in, and the three of them have once again taken over the living room. Eliot and Quentin are lounging together on the sofa, while Margo is curled up in an armchair, her legs thrown over one arm. They're enjoying the fruits of Eliot's labour, cookies and cupcakes as well as florentines, millionaires shortbread and a truly spectacular butterscotch cheesecake, along with several bottles of wine. Eliot has lost count at this point, but he's feeling relaxed and warm and so, so happy to be here in the company of his two favourite people.

And then the front door opens.

"Oh my god, you guys!" the world's most irritating voice calls from far too near to Eliot's ear. "You didn't have to roll out the red carpet just for me! How did you know I was coming back?"

Eliot can't bring himself to turn his head. "Todd," he says, very calmly, "what are you doing here? Classes don't start for another two weeks."

"Well, yeah," that awful, grating voice says. Eliot can hear the smile in it, for God's sake. "But I knew you guys were spending the summer here all alone, and I thought I'd surprise you."

Quentin reaches up and pets at Eliot's hair in an attempt at a soothing gesture - except, he's had so much wine at this point, that he rather misses the mark and ends up patting Eliot's whole face. "Hi, Todd," he calls. "It's good to see you. We weren't expecting you, though, sorry. This is just - 'cause we felt like it."

"There's plenty left," Eliot says generously, "but you can't have anything. It's all spelled to poison anyone who isn't us, I'm afraid."

"Gee, that's too bad," Todd says, all wide-eyed and earnest. "I know you can't reverse that spell, either."

Quentin frowns at Eliot, but Margo just smirks. "That's right; we'll have snacks for _days._ Welcome back, Todd; goodbye, Todd."

Todd shrugs and picks up his bag, ridiculously oversized considering he's a literal Magician and could fit this whole room inside a purse if he was competent enough. "You have a good night, guys!"

"Goodnight, Todd," Quentin says, giving Todd a wave that he returns before heading upstairs. As soon as he's out of earshot, though, Quentin pokes Eliot in the cheek, narrowly missing his eye. "Why are you so rude to him? He could've had a cookie."

"No he could not," Eliot says, scandalised. "Didn't you hear me? They're poisoned. God, Q, why do you hate him so much?"

Quentin's brow furrows. "You didn't literally poison them, though?"

"I might've," Eliot says. "I could've, if I wanted to. I _would've_ , if I'd known Todd was coming back."

"So rude," Quentin sighs, but he lets the subject drop, settling more heavily against Eliot. "You're lucky I love you."

Eliot sighs, deep and dreamy. "I know."


End file.
